Celestial Beings
by kinnerwho221
Summary: Three years after the Fall, Molly still cares, John is still broken, and Sherlock aims for a reunion. *I do not own any of the characters, or the show BBC Sherlock.*


Molly's POV:

It's been three years since _it _happened, and John is still wearing the same sweaters. Three years, and his limp has come back, stronger than ever. Three years, and I still work in the St. Bart's morgue.

Time has gone by slowly. The city moves at a lurching pace. Nothing ever happens without Sherlock Holmes, "the world's only consulting detective." It's as if criminals have stopped killing people, stealing things, or whatever it is they do, just because Sherlock isn't there to prove them guilty. At least, that's how it seems to me.

I have tried visiting 221B, but John isn't home- ever. I am very worried. Lestrade tells me he never answers. Still, I want to talk to him, and tell him it's difficult for all of us, especially Mrs. Hudson. I think, I _know, _that he knows that, but I just want to get it all off my chest. It's really a burden.

"Molly," he says. "I know it's hard for you, too, but Sherlock was all he had. Now everything is gone."

"No, he has us. He will always have us," I tell him.

The only time John has come to speak to either of us is when he asked Lestrade what to do with all of Sherlock's science equipment. Lestrade told him he could donate it to the hospital, where I work. The boxes have remained, untouched, in the corner. I could never bear to use them.

It didn't surprise me to hear sirens coming to the hospital one day in mid-October. It's normal. But then, Lestrade came into the morgue, about ten minutes later. He said it was John.

John had jumped off the roof, just like Sherlock.

John's POV:

I never really remember much. Everyday is, and has been for three years, a blur. There is no color, and I just feel numb. Sometimes I visit his grave, but I know that after every visit I'll just feel more lonely than before. All I asked for was that one miracle, one more miracle, that he didn't give me.

I also wonder what made him jump. He told me it was all a magic trick, but could he really expect me to believe that he wasn't the "normal" Sherlock I knew him to be? I try to tell myself there was a reason, that it had nothing to do with me, but I'm not sure I could really tell myself that anymore.

I haven't worked with Lestrade. It's hard to find a steady job in London, so I had to move out of 221B. Mrs. Hudson understood.

Today is the 15th of October. It's almost been four years since I met Sherlock. I guess this is as good a day as any to do what I must do. It has to be done.

I find myself on the roof of St. Bart's. The wind whips against my face, turning my colorless cheeks a shade of pink I can't see. I look across the street. People are below, walking, talking, and I don't think they're watching. I have to do this now.

A few weeks ago, I gave Sherlock's science equipment to Molly. I told Lestrade I had no use for it. Mrs. Hudson had received my old key from the flat, along with a letter saying that I appreciated her company the months after he died. Harry hasn't talked to me in weeks. She couldn't miss me, not after how dead I've been to everyone.

I step up to the ledge. I take one last look at my surroundings. A tall man is standing on the roof of the building across from me, his dark hair and coat swaying in the wind, as it had done the last time I saw him on the roof I stood on now. I knew my mind would do this.

It's just one step to nothingness. It's one step, and a harsh dose of reality. In one swift motion, I'm there.

I see white. It is everywhere. It covers me, and pours into my soul.

Sherlock's POV:

I have missed John in every second, breath, and day. I can imagine he missed me too. All of this time I have hoped he, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade are doing well. I have occasionally thought of Molly and Mycroft, as well. My heart has been heavy with a feeling I'm not sure I've felt before.

Today, as I walk the streets of London, undisguised, I get a few glances. I think most have forgotten who I am, or used to be. Running through my mind the scene that will play when John sees me again, I walk up to our old flat. I expect to see him there, sipping a tea, possibly a new girlfriend at his side, but that is not what I find at all. I see an empty apartment, with no furniture, and new wallpaper.

"Get out of here, or I'll phone the police!" I hear from behind me. Mrs. Hudson stands firmly in the doorway, incredulous. She doesn't believe I'm real. Neither do I, really.

"Mrs. Hudson, it's me, Sherlock," I say in a slow voice, to calm her.

"No, it can't be. You were dead, on a slab. It was three years ago." She is quite shaken-up.

"But, it _is_ me."

"How, Sherlock?" I don't have time for this. I must find John.

"I know who keeps the records. Where is John?"

"He hasn't lived here in two years, doesn't talk to me, and is very depressed. I worry about him."

I leave the flat immediately, and rush onto the busy streets once more. Car horns disrupt my thoughts of where he could be. With Stamford? No. At Scotland Yard? Most likely not. It's not easy to observe something you cannot see in front of you.

As I run to see Lestrade, I constantly dodge cars, as well as paparazzi. They're starting to notice me. It must be quite a shock to see a man who supposedly committed suicide, running through the streets of London.

"Where's the deerstalker?" I am not amused.

I walk into Lestrade's office. He sits, behind the computer, typing something. He gestures for me to wait a second, and I do just that. Before looking at me, he picks up his coffee, and takes a sip. His eyes lock onto my face, and I see a look of pure horror and unbelief.

"Save the remarks of surprise, I am looking for John. Where is he?" I ask, pressed for time.

Lestrade sprays his coffee all over his desk and my new shirt. "Thanks," I say, lips pursed.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! You're dead!"

"Quite obviously, I am not dead. I am very much alive."

"No, you're _dead_."

"Where is John?"

"I have no idea."

Suddenly, I remember Molly, and how she might know where John is, though, probably not. If I could get the awkward reunion over with, it might not be such a bad idea to stop by. I stand up and leave the office.

"Are you going to tell me how you're not actually dead?" Greg asks from his seat.

"No."

I stop and see Donovan and Anderson glaring at me. "Freak?" they say in unison. I wave them off.

Ten minutes later, I stand on the roof of the building across from St. Bart's. I thought if I could get a higher view of the building and street, I could clear my mind and somehow locate John in this crowded city. Also, I wanted to see the place I faked my death three years ago.

After a minute of standing in the blistering autumn wind, I see a figure walk onto the roof. John. He walks slowly to the edge.

_Don't jump._

He steps onto the ledge.

_Don't jump, John. Don't jump._

I stare at him and smile. I remember all the times I never spoke, yet he stayed by my side and offered to help me, no matter how much I declined. I remember his blog. I remember the time he came to the crime scene of the lady who wore all pink, trying to keep up, and wanting the action he used to see on the battlefield. I remember the moment I called him from the place he stands now, telling him it was all fake. And he didn't believe me.

He sees me. I continue to smile, and I think he _actually _sees me, maybe even understands what I did_. _But then, I watch him jump.

I gave him that one miracle, if only he could return it.


End file.
